The Knife

"I'm hanging in front of the knife, can someone help?"

Sweat dribbles, devastatingly slowly down my chin,
Trespassing onto my neck, it slides past the blade, moving tantalisingly close to my throat
All of this is the fault of mine
And I've dug my own grave.
This knife is of my creation, the embodiment of my mistakes,
The terrors that haunt me, every lie that follows me, and every misjudgment. 

So I'll just hang here, tied into submission, upside down, 
Watching the knife move towards me. 

The End

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